


Water Horsey Blues

by xogillete



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Snakes n Barrels era, light slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xogillete/pseuds/xogillete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the 80's. It was a different time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Horsey Blues

Seventeen year old Pickles was a stumbling, rage filled, self-loathing alcoholic. High school angst fitted into ripped Levi's and platform boots. The temper on this particular teenager was beyond repair, and yet somehow, aided him in success. The neglect he faced, the need for approval, all of this led him to pursue music. Within a few months, he had gathered a trio of talents among his friends. Pickles would shove his hatred into songs in hopes of abandoning them. Lyrics would help admit the pain, and fame would serve as a bandage; masking it, though not entirely fixing the wound. Success, he assumed, would be the final step in recovery. Gloating in front of those who denied him would be sweet and justified. He would go on stage tonight in front of the millions that adored him, and be treated like the God he had become.

Charles was twenty-one when he attended his first concert. He paid in cash for the best seats in the house, gave into overpriced solo cups, allowed the mess of fans to thrash around him (sometimes even into him). It was his first concert, and it was beginning to show. The other men had brought their muscle t-shirts and distressed leather bottoms. Charles stood out like a sore thumb in his white button up and slacks. He remained silent as he watched band after band play, until it was finally time for the main event. He swallowed hard at the figure that strutted on to the stage, his heart leaping out of his chest. The fiery haired idol that stood before him gave no introduction. He went straight to preforming. He would screech into the microphone until his lungs gave out. He would kick and bang his head through every instrumental. He would make lewd gestures with his hands and grind into the mic stand as he sang. This is what Charles had came for.

Pickles doesn't remember many entire sets with Snakes 'n Barrels, but this one is very vivid. He recalls drowning himself in angel dust and liquor beforehand, the mix of powdered euphoria and liquid courage getting him through the day. He remembers Tony's perfect guitar solo, the first fan sign for SNB he'd ever seen, the roar for an encore. He remembers genuinely enjoying himself, and realizing within the first minutes of the show that he had made it. They played all their own songs and did a few covers. One of the most memorable images that lingered in his mind was the presence of an unlikely fan, a man that was probably no older than Pickles, in a collared shirt and dark trousers. A pale face behind rectangular frames, chanting along to the lyrics. This man was dressed to impress, but here he was, singing along to songs about shooting heroin and crazy ex-girlfriends. If he could bring out the animal in men like him, Pickles could bring out the animal in anybody. 

This man was the epitome of a rebel, the new leader of his generation in music. His songs were blunt, his voice was loud, and his look was dramatic. He got what he wanted, when he wanted. He was everything Charles could never be. The glamorous teenage sensation had accomplished so much in so little time, and instead of harvesting his jealousy because of it, Charles grew to admire him. That night, he threw his law aspirations aside, realizing that his true calling was becoming a man in the music business, one who could work alongside heroes like him. Charles made a vow that one day, he would manage someone larger than life. Someone just like Pickles.

* * *

Pickles rummages through photos of his younger days on the living room couch, the era of glam rock flashing before his eyes. The rest of the boys had passed out all throughout Mordhaus long ago, due to all the sugar and heavy drinking. Charles had been up and down the halls appointing Klokateers to carry each member to their bedrooms. While looking for Pickles, he is surprised to see that the ginger is still awake and not too drunk at all. Of course, it's hard to label when Pickles _is_ inebriated, because he's almost always at least a bit tipsy. Nonetheless, he's let curiosity get the best of him, and makes his way to sit beside the drummer.

“Reminiscing are we, Pickles?”

Pickles jolts up, obviously caught off guard. “Oh hey dere, chief! Yeah, I guess you could say dat.” 

“Is that a...time capsule of some sort?” 

“Nah, it's a box of old pitchers 'n fliers from my SNB days.”

Charles leans in to get a better look of the photo he's currently holding. “That bandanna really suits you.”

Pickles rolls his eyes and nods. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. It was a different time, alright?”

“I wasn't laughing.”

The ginger smiles. “I am. Jeeze, can you believe da shit us rock stars wore back den? _Gahd_. All dat eyeshadow 'n body glitter.”

Charles shrugs. “Well Pickles, that entire decade ran on many flamboyant aesthetics. Many of which...you, ah, wore very well, in my opinion.”

 A grin tugs at Pickles' lips. “I keep fergettin' you were probably my age in da 80's too. Were you a big Snakes 'n Barrels fan back den, Charlie?”

Charles looks directly at him, catching the same glint in his green eyes he wore twenty years ago. Now it's his turn to smile. “I guess you could say that.”


End file.
